


Eponinè’s Story

by captainlandwhaleamerica



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Historical Fantasy, Humor, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainlandwhaleamerica/pseuds/captainlandwhaleamerica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" As he runs down Marius, I hear him call: “Until we meet again Eponine!” and I watch him until he disappears. My shoulder tingles from where he touched me and I swear my heart is a sparrow trying to escape from my rib cage. I’m short of breath and weak in the knees and I have to sit down, resting my cheek against the cool cobblestone wall. I’m being childish, I know, but my wit is replaced by words that flit around my head in that soft, cultured voice. 'Marius'. 'Thank You'. 'Until we meet again'. 'Marius'. Lord, I need to get a grip. The church bells chime and I realize just how long I’ve been away. As I make my way down a side street, the bells sing his name, and no matter how much I concentrate, the melody won’t leave my head."</p><p>Les Miserables told from the point of view of Eponine Thenardier. Mostly backstory to how she became first friends and then heel over heels in love with Marius. Begins A few months before the revolution and is set into motion by her chance meeting of Marius. A combination of what the book and musicals tell about Eponine's part, but mostly, its imaginings of her life. Please enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Wonderful Life

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mostly because I adore Eponine's story and felt she should have been a much stronger character. There are a few references to the musical in this chapter!

Paris at dawn is my favorite kind of Paris. Right in those first few precious seconds before it’s officially a new day, when the tentative sun is just daring to stick its nose above the horizon and look down at the people of this world, when the city is blinking its eyes free of the previous day’s trouble and deceit, and for a moment, all is innocent. Paris is relatively quiet at this time. I say relatively, because Paris is never really quiet, no matter the time of day. Even in the darkest shadows of night, if you listen closely, you can detect the wailing of the ill, the whispers of shady deals being made behind bolted doors, the screams of feverish babies, the rustle of a purse being cut from a drunkard stumbling home. But by the completion of sunrise, the secretive sounds have faded. Even the most terrible murderer needs to sleep at some point. Now is the time of the Parisian bakers and grocers to tempt their neighbors with sweet and savory odors that waft through creaky, rotting walls to pull them out of bed. And, it’s my time. Every morning as the skies get lighter and the stars begin to fade, I creep out of whatever hovel my parents had found for us to sleep the night before, and find my way to la rue Cheval and climb to the roof of the ABC Café. It’s a funny building, almost triangular in shape and rather crooked, with intoxicated windows that lean to the side. On the wall facing away from the street, there is an ancient, rusty, ladder worn from years of use, yet somehow still strong enough the support me as I scramble up the pathway to heaven.  
Up here is my safe palace, where I don't have to do or think or say anything I don't want to. My mother’s screeching yell can't carry this far, my father stinging hands are far out of reach. I am alone with the sun and the wide expanse of Paris. 

On this particular morning, the sun sends fingers of purple and gray across the sky, reaching out to the infinites of the universe, to places I will only ever dream of. I sit there, just breathing in the morning air mixed with freshly baked bread scent until I hear the creak of the door as the owner begins sweeping the walkway. That would be my cue to leave. I take one last longing look at the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, then shimmy down the ladder and slip into an alleyway, back into the city center, away from peace and dreams and clear air. 

My parents, the Thenardiers, are the most dishonest cheats and thieves and genuinely terrible people you will ever have the misfortune of meeting. When I was small, they used to own a inn in a small town three hours south of Paris, and life was okay, but even with all the stealing and trickery that went on there, my father was so far into debt with the wrong people we ended up here, on the streets like thousands of others. We left my baby brother and sister in the care of the people who took over our place, I only came because I’m small and quick, useful for swiping coins and food. We're supposedly beggars, but somehow there is always the jangle of coins in my father’s boot, and my mother hasn’t gotten any skinnier in the past five years. Sometimes I wonder if my parents actually prefer this way of life and that’s why they're here, huddled together in the room of a disgusting hotel. My mother and father dominate the only bed, a termite infested wreck pushed rudely into a far corner. I’m shocked the flimsy thing doesn't collapse under my mother’s massive weight. I occupied the ratty chaise near the window last night, legs tucked under me, not really sleeping. My father’s cronies, a group of about seven or eight of the most filthy men I've ever met, who sleep on the floor often look at me with this sort of primal greed and whistle obscenely as I walk by. I've learned to always be one my toes because all it takes is one mistake to lose everything, your innocence, whatever money you have on you, even your life. There’s no one to protect me from it all. My parents no longer see me as any more than just another disposable member of their crime team and I've never had any friends that I can trust. But being alone isn’t too much of an issue. It’s simply safer, and I'm sorry but I’d sacrifice companions over safety any day.  
My cow of a mother rolls over in her sleep, but settles too close to the edge of the tiny bed. Biting my lip as I climb back in through the window, I watch as her upper body inches its way to the floor each time she lets out a shattering snore. Eventually gravity takes over, and with an “OMMMPH” she crashes down. Suddenly awake, she heaves herself to her feet, cursing God and the owner of the hotel and the king and anyone else she can think of. Not surprisingly, the commotion wakes my father and he is up in a flash, swinging his gangly legs over the side of the bed and yelling “UP YOU SON OF WHORES!” at the men crumpled together on the floor. Like dogs, they twitch and whimper, some half opening one eye, still mostly in their perverse dreams. Their reluctant behavior angers my mother, rubbing her neck; she throws her shoes at them, still cursing. It occurs to me that I should maybe come back later, when I’m not in danger of being killed by flying insults and shoes. I’m about a foot from the door, when an icy, calloused hand fastens onto my arm.  
“Girl, if you think you’re going anywhere other than to get us some breakfast, you are sorely mistaken,” my father’s voice drips like poison into my ear, sinking into my skin, infecting me with his greed. His hands find mine and slip a few coins into my palm. He and I both know it’s not enough to feed all of us, but the look in his eyes tells me no more will be given. I nod and duck behind him, making my way out of the rotten hotel filled with similar episodes to the one I just witnessed, because that’s how Parisians operate in the nineteenth century, yell as loud as you can and pray to God someone hears the hidden pleas in your curses.


	2. The Boy with the Peach

Even though it’s only Wednesday, the market is packed, but nobody seems to be buying much. All the attention is focused on a young man with curly red hair standing on a makeshift stage. He must be 300 meters away, but his voice rings across the cobblestones, clear as church bells. As he speaks, or rather yells, his whole body shakes with the passion of his words. His arm is thrust in the air, clutching papers that flutter in the morning breeze. Every fiber of his being radiates defiance; you can almost see it in the air. I find street uprisings like this both frustrating and sad. There have been many these past years as the rich get richer and the poor only get poorer. It’s depressing, but what can you do? All that “power to the people” shit doesn’t put bread in our mouths. These revolutions only serve as a distraction (sometimes a permanent one), a worthless sliver of hope from our pitiful lives, luring us into the silly idea that change for the masses is palpable. Shaking my head, I take advantage of the crowd’s distraction to grab a baguette and a hunk of cheese from inattentive vendors, leaving a coin at each, it’s not the full payment, but at least it’s something. I try as much as I can not to be a petty thief, as tempting as it is. I’m just about to leave when I spot the fruit vendor’s cart standing unattended, the owner caught up in the crowd, who are now chanting “Vive La France! Vive La France!” I search my pockets, but only come up with one silver coin, enough for an apple, but not one of those juicy peaches. I haven’t had a peach since I was little, and Oh God, I remember the sweet taste of juice dripping down my chin.... Almost before I’m fully aware of my actions, the peach is in my hand, and I’m walking away from the marketplace, coin back in my pocket. I stop abruptly and drop the peach. What the hell have I done? I have spent most of my young adult life striving to lean away from my parents’ deceitful way of life, and now, after years of effort, a peach defeats me? I guess I am weaker than I thought. I can’t go back and return it now, maybe if I—  
“Excuse me, miss? I think you dropped your peach?” A voice speaks from behind me. I whirl around and come face to face with a boy about my age, tall and lean with hair wild and unruly, but it almost looks purposely unkempt, like he spent time in the mirror messing with it in order to achieve the I-just-rolled-out-of-bed look. His face is kind and sprinkled with freckles, his eyes are the color of moss and they sparkle. His clothes are nice enough, but well-worn and hastily patched in places. Clearly no spouse or landlady to do his chores. His hands extend the treacherous peach towards me. It’s a little bruised but still delicious-looking.  
“Here” he offers it again. I back away, furiously shaking my head, but I can’t take my eyes off of him, so I stumble a bit on the cobblestones.  
“I-I can’t” I stammer, clumsily righting myself. He knits his eyebrows together in confusion and I force myself to look down. “It’s not mine….I stole it” I mumble into the dirty collar of my dress, then immediately get angry with myself. I don’t even know this boy’s name, let alone if I can trust him, which I probably can’t. God, I could go to jail for this! And now he thinks I’m a petty thief. Somehow, I’m more scared of his judgment of me than prison. Panic rips through me. I scrutinize the ground, waiting for him to turn tail and run, calling for the police. But he doesn’t. There’s only silence, terrible gaping silence between him and I, lasting for what seems like a billion heartbeats. I feel his striking green eyes looking at me and then, I see his hand touch my clasped ones, replacing the peach.  
“It would be a shame to let such a peach go to waste, wouldn’t it?” I look up, and he’s grinning so widely that I can’t help but let the ghost of a smile touch my lips. He’s about to say something else but a voice cuts him off.  
“Marius! Police are here! We gotta scram, now!” The curly red-head from the soapbox emerges from the crowd, gesturing wildly. Indeed, I can hear hoof beats and the shouts of men coming from a few streets away.  
“Shit,” swears Marius and he turns to face to new arrival, “They’re blocking our way back to the café. If we get arrested now, this revolution will never get off its feet”  
“Where are you trying to get to?” I ask.  
“ABC Café,” he replies still not looking at me, obviously trying to construct a map in his head “on la rue Cheval”  
“Take that alley,” I say, pointing to our right, “second right, third left, straight on the end of that street, then…a right” They look at me in amazement.  
“How…did…what?” Shrugging my shoulders like it’s no big deal, as if I give directions to revolutionaries every day, I'm grinning inwardly. I can be useful.  
“I know my way around. Done a lot of wandering in my life. Now, go!” Soapbox boy turns without hesitation and runs down the alley, but Marius hesitates a second and places a hand on my shoulder. We lock eyes and an electric shock unlike anything I’ve ever felt flies through my body.  
“Thank you,” He half-whispers.  
“Go,” I whisper back, not trusting myself to raise my voice. He’s so close I can smell the cheap soap of his navy jacket. “They’re nearing now!” He glances over his shoulders and we both hear the shouts of the police growing louder.  
“I don’t even know your name!”  
“Eponine. Now go!” I push him gently into the alley. As he runs down it, I hear him call: “Until we meet again Eponine!”

I watch him until he disappears. My shoulder tingles from where he touched me and I swear my heart is a sparrow trying to escape from my rib cage. I’m short of breath and weak in the knees and I have to sit down, resting my cheek against the cool cobblestone wall. I’m being childish, I know, but my wit is replaced by words that flit around my head in that soft, cultured voice. Marius. Thank You. Until we meet again. Marius.  
Lord, I need to get a grip. The church bells chime and I realize just how long I’ve been away. As I make my way down a side street, the bells sing his name, and no matter how much I concentrate, the melody won’t leave my head.


	3. The Makings of a Revolution

My mother is standing outside when I return to the hotel. Arms crossed, eyebrows raised, right foot tapping, signs that have become familiar to me and set off warning bells. This could get ugly.

“Oh look the prodigal daughter sees the decency to return to her beggar family. How kind,” she drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm. I bite back an angry retort; knowing it’ll only increase her rage. I hand her the cheese and bread, and after a beat of hesitation, the peach. Her greedy eyes light up and she pockets it. 

“Hey idiots!” she yells behind her, “Eponinè’s brought you scoundrels breakfast!” Father appears at the door his squad lurking behind him. One of the men, I think his name is Montparnasse, leers at me, his teeth as yellow as the hunk of cheese Mother is now slicing up with a small knife. I flinch, collect my share and turn to leave, my work here is done. 

“Eponinè, going so soon?” mother asks, peach juice slipping down her face. 

“Um, I have few loose ends to tie up this morning?” One wouldn’t believe the number of times this excuse has worked. I think my parents believe this statement to mean I’ve gotten myself into trouble the night before, and that makes them happy. 

“Oh come on, girly, eat with us,” whines Montparnasse patting the seat beside him. Fighting the urge to respond with an obscene gesture, I shudder and walk out, calls of “Be back by one brat!” echoing behind me. But for once, I don’t care; their words are just sticks and stones striking my back, just adding to the plethora of scars, both emotional and physical that I’ve accumulated over the years. 

 

There’s not a soul on earth that can truthfully say Paris is not a beautiful city. But usually, visitors and citizens only see the big monuments, the towers that reflect the past, the grand mansions. They can’t see the beauty of the common street, the simple store, the crooked windows with washing hung above your head as you pass beneath. I guess they just don’t bother to take the time to stop and take it in. I don’t know why I do, really. Maybe it’s a distraction from the ugliness I see in myself and the people around me, the ugliness that comes from years and years of exposure to lies, hate and deceit. As I ponder this, my feet take up of mind of their own, guiding me through dusty alleys and busy cobble-stoned streets where the houses lean against one another on either side. Ever since we arrived here five years ago or so, I‘ve used my free time committing every street and alley to memory, creating a sort of map inside my head. It’s useful for escaping the police or other unwanted pursuers. 'And for aiding revolutionaries,' my mind whispers at me as I dodge a cart full of flour. Inwardly, I laugh, but my face involuntarily goes hot at the thought of his hand on my shoulder and those parting words…I jerk my head up, flinging away the thought, and find myself back at my morning café. I’ve never actually seen it in broad daylight before. It’s very busy, surrounded by fairly decent apartments and shops that swarm with human activity, but it’s clear the center of the commotion is the café itself. Young men with lapels of red, white and blue pinned with pride rush about in groups carrying rolls of parchment and …guns? Across the square, two of the men are deep in conversation, heads bent together over a map.

“Marius,” I breathe in recognition. He and the curly-haired boy are pointing at different places on the map, arguing. I can see Marius’s companion is filled with passion, each word brimming with belief and freedom and hope and rebellion. The words spill out of his mouth in a river, and even though I’m too far away to hear the conversation, I imagine the words colored red and black in the afternoon air. Here is someone whose entire existence depends on that false idea of independence and a people’s republic. I wonder if Marius believes in a utopia with as much reverence. His body language doesn’t tell me much, but I know from experience that some people don’t show their emotions, whether naturally or as a force of habit. Curly-haired boy is interrupted by a small youth of about ten, carrying a letter. They both disappear into the café, leaving Marius alone. It takes him about twenty seconds to see me across the square. Grinning from ear-to-ear, he hurries up to me, his foot falls beatimg in time with my racing heart. When he reaches me, we stand there for a minute, awkwardly, each searching for the right words to say. Finally, he speaks.

“You saved us you know, If it wasn’t for you and your very reliable directions, Enj and I would be locked up now,” I’m sort of taken back. Appreciation is an alien subject to me. I don’t think the words “thank you” have ever escaped my parent’s mouths without the heavy influence of alcohol or sarcasm. They figure I should be grateful to have a family and a roof to sleep under and an opportunity to eat. And in a way, they’re right; I could do a lot worse. I could be sold into prostitution, forced to lift up my skirts for every revolting man to come my way. That’s just one of the many situations that most likely end with me dying of sickness brought on by cold or abuse or malnutrition. I have a lot to be thankful for, really. Even so, being genuinely thanked fills me with this warmth, like the sun finally defrosting the grass after a long, cold, cold night. 

“It was no trouble. Consider it returning the favor for not ratting me out to the police earlier” I answer, and a look of confusion passes over his face. 

“Eponinè, it was just a peach. I don’t think that greedy vendor even noticed” He cocks his head at me, “Why does it matter so much to you?” I’m tempted to actually tell him the truth, a truth I’ve never told anybody, never even said out loud before. It’s strange the feeling I get around him, even though we’ve only met twice. It’s a feeling of…safety. I realize I would be completely fine with sitting him down and telling him my whole life story, all the secrets, all the sins. He’s just got this way about him that compels me to trust him. But people can fake that, and I shake out of my reverie. 

“I’m just doing my best to uphold the law” I shrug, keeping my eyes down. 

“Well, at least you’re not a tyrant,” he laughs. I glance around us at the bustle of activity. 

“Is that what all this is for?”

“Yes, you are standing right the middle of the makings of a revolution. We’re just waiting for the perfect moment to begin.”

“What makes the perfect moment?”

“Well, I think any moment is just as good as the last, that we are wasting our time and resources by just sitting around pointing out fingers at maps and statistics, not to mention the lives fading away for every moment we do not act. But,” and here he sighs and glances at the top room of the café, “Enjolras is convinced we must wait for some immense incident to strike fire into the heart and limbs of the population. And I suppose he’s right, the sixteen of us are no match for the National Guard, but I’m so tired of waiting! I feel like I’ve spent my entire life preparing for some big event, and that its occurrence will drastically alter my life but I can’t know what it is until it happens. I really hope it’s the revolution Eponinè”

“And what if it’s not?” I ask, casting him a sideways glance. I’m fascinated by his conviction that someday his life will be dramatically changed by a single event. It’s a notion I had never pondered before. I had always thought of our lives as a straight line, with small dips and rises along the way, destined to live the life we were born into, but Marius’ idea burns with… hope, and for the first time in my life, “hope” doesn’t sound like a fake promise. Instead it sparks a match in my heart and my head, an urge to take up arms against what wrongs me. 

“Well, if the revolution isn’t the big occurrence, and if I actually survive it, which is doubtful, I suppose I’d have to focus on finding a suitable wife and perhaps the prospect of family will kick start my life” He says it offhandedly still gazing at the top window, but my stomach drops into my toes none the less. Sharply, I look up at his face. He’s only about a head taller than me, and his freckled face is lost in thoughts, thoughts I can picture all too clearly. A beautiful white wedding on some spring day, with rose petals lining the aisle of some small, yet pristine chapel, the breathtaking smile of a pretty young bride whose lilting laugh echoes among the church bells that ring above them as he and his new wife embrace, to the delight of his assembled family and friends. 

“Do you want to get married?” I ask, abruptly, “Not to me, obviously, but to…someone?” Christ, Eponine, could be you be any more obvious?

“No. Yes. No. I mean, eventually, of course. I’m in no particular rush,” He grins and shakes his head, “Come, enough with this dreary future nonsense. Let me show you around!” He takes my hand and pulls me towards the café.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me when I say I realize that Eponine most likely does not have this kind of vocabulary, but I just can't help myself. Huzzah for more lyric references! I'm completely blown away with how many people are reading this! So thank you so much for indulging your precious time with my musings.


End file.
